


look, how winter has gone

by coriandrumsativum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Nipple Play, Pure Smut, Teasing, if anyone needs me i'll be in the sin bin, patience as a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: D’Artagnan kisses like he’d rather have Athos than air, like Athos’ lips are sweeter than the finest wine, like Athos is the only sturdy anchor in a storm-tossed sea.  And oh, God, how he wants d’Artagnan to know the splendour of such worship.  How he wants to be worthy of it.Now featuringGORGEOUSLY HOT ARTWORKby TricksterKat209! Go check it out!





	look, how winter has gone

**Author's Note:**

> for a certain individual. you know who you are.
> 
> alternate summary: d'Artagnan is a pillow princess and Athos is his devoted enabler

The candlelight is soft and sweet in the room, the embers of the fire glowing quietly and pouring off heat until the air is almost heavy with it.

They had undressed each other lazily, reverently, slowly and sensually without a thought to worry or haste, and when all that was left was d’Aragnan’s loose cream-coloured shirt, Athos had wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled d’Artagnan flush against his chest, and kissed him breathless before walking them back to the bed and pressing d’Artagnan down against the waiting pillows, hand still splayed against his back. 

D’Artagnan kisses him back deeply, wantonly, his fingers threading and twisting in Athos’ hair, and moans when Athos climbs up onto the bed as well. He bends his legs up, giving Athos room to settle between them, inviting him in, and Athos is only too happy to oblige, but not yet. First he must push his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, thick and straight and falling almost to his shoulders; must press his lips to d’Artagnan’s forehead, warm and soft and just beginning to sting with salt; must kiss both of his cheeks and mouth at his jawline, teasing at the corners of his lips; must taste the sweat at the hollow of his throat; must feel the thrum of his pulse speeding up beneath his tongue. 

D’Artagnan’s hands are still in his hair, dragging along his scalp, roaming down to the nape of his neck as he gasps and groans and shudders beneath him, and Athos can’t resist moving back up for one more searing kiss. D’Artagnan kisses like he’d rather have Athos than air, like Athos’ lips are sweeter than the finest wine, like Athos is the only sturdy anchor in a storm-tossed sea. And oh, God, how he wants d’Artagnan to know the splendour of such worship. How he wants to be worthy of it.

He pulls back, the breathy, desolate moan he gets for it almost enough to tempt him into staying, but he knows better. This is just the prelude.

D’Artagnan’s preference for maintaining his shirt in bed had struck him as odd at first – there is nothing of d’Artagnan’s body that deserves to be hidden, and he would feast his eyes and lips and tongue on every inch if he were allowed – but he soon grew to love it. The way the colour further bronzes d’Artagnan’s skin in the low light, the way the billowing fabric clings and glides and shifts between them, the way it allows him a second disrobing when he lifts the long hem and pushes it up around d’Artagnan’s waist. 

For d’Artagnan, it’s about the sensation, the drag of the linen against his sensitive skin, and Athos knows what to do with that by now.

He backs further down the bed, trailing his fingers down d’Artagnan’s sides, then skates them back up over his chest. D’Artagnan arches into the touch with a gasp, eyes opening briefly and flashing in the firelight before dropping closed again. His hips twitch up as Athos repeats the motion, then sets to tracing circles, wide at first and narrowing slowly, around his nipples, never touching them but knowing that the brush of the fabric is at once too light and too coarse, and will drive d’Artagnan to madness far better than his fingers ever could.

“Athos,” he gasps, but Athos keeps going until d’Artagnan is panting shallowly and his shirt is clinging to him in more places than it isn’t. He’s beautiful in this light. He’s beautiful always, but here, now, loose and desperate and panting beneath his touch, skin golden and glistening, hair dark and slick and gleaming, eyelashes a dark sweep against his flushing cheeks and mouth a sinful temptation… Athos would die, here, if he could. He no longer wants to, but if he must, it will be with this memory at the forefront of his mind.

Athos kisses him again – how could he not? – and lets d’Artagnan lead, clumsy but as full of fire as ever. “I love you,” he breathes when they part, and d’Artagnan makes a short, broken sound that might be a sob.

“Please, Athos,” he says, eyes shut tightly and chest heaving. “Please, please, please,” and Athos knows what he wants but it’s not time yet. It’s not nearly time.

“Patience,” he murmurs. It pleases him to please d’Artagnan, and he does not want this to be over quite so soon. He sits back on his heels and takes a moment to admire the sight before him. D’Artagnan, sprawled back against the pillows with his hair clinging to his face and his shirt clinging to his chest, feet planted on the mattress but knees spread wide, cock trying and failing to hide beneath a loose drape of fabric – it’s a gorgeous tableau. Maybe this is what he will remember.

He starts with d’Artagnan’s left foot, following powerful massage with feather-light touches, and works his way up his calf, past his knee, and to his thigh, kneading the muscle in ever higher segments and tracing them with his palms as he finishes. When he reaches the hip, he presses a kiss to the jutting bone and starts on his other foot.

When the other side is done, and d’Artagnan has gone from gasping to sighing, and the fingers in his hair are petting rather than pulling, Athos knows it’s time.

He kneels between d’Artagnan’s legs and draws his shirt up slowly, deliberately keeping the hem taught as it brushes the underside of his cock. D’Artagnan just hums contentedly even as his cock jumps, and yes, it’s time.

His hands are never idle as he works, thumbs tracing d’Artagnan’s hipbones or the tendons along his groin while his lips show the same deliberate care to his cock that his hands had just shown to his legs.

By the time he’s halfway down the shaft, d’Artagnan’s face has gone slack in the flickering light, his hands are merely resting on Athos’ head, and he doesn’t seem to notice the way his hips are lazily thrusting up to meet Athos’ advance. He’s making a low, continuous hum in his chest that could be a groan but is certainly more like a purr.

The hum gets deeper and lustier as Athos works his way down, then turns to shuddering gasps when Athos hollows his cheeks and starts to suck in earnest. His hands are still now, anchoring d’Artagnan’s hips but by no means keeping them still, and it’s his tongue that has taken up the constant motion, licking and swirling and tapping in patterns even he can’t predict, and it’s taking d’Artagnan to pieces.

The shuddering gasps turn to tight, punctuated groans, the fingers in his hair turn strong and demanding once more, the hips beneath his hands are stuttering ever more gracelessly until at last d’Artagnan sucks in one loud, gasping breath, then another, and another, and comes down Athos’ throat with a hoarse cry of mingled anguish and relief.

Athos sucks and swallows and swirls his tongue until he’s done, then relaxes so he’s simply holding d’Artagnan’s softening cock in his mouth, providing gentle pressure and soothing heat until he’s ready to withdraw. It takes d’Artagnan some time to come back to himself, but Athos will wait. At last, d’Artagnan pulls free with a sigh and a shift, and Athos leans up to kiss him. They’re neither of them graceful by this point, d’Artagnan shaky with the comedown and Athos not entirely sure that his lips are still attached, but it’s just as heavenly as always.

“Sleep,” he murmurs against d’Artagnan’s lips, and brushes his sticky hair off his face.

“What about you?” d’Artagnan mumbles.

“You can have me in the morning,” Athos promises. 

D’Artagnan grins sloppily, eyes already closing. “You’ll wait?”

Athos kisses him again, this time between his eyebrows. “You know I will.” 

He eases d’Artagnan out of his shirt, now thoroughly soaked, and wipes the worst of the sweat from the pair of them with a warm cloth before snuffing out the candles and slipping back into bed. His own cock is stiff and throbbing, but it can wait until morning. 

The waiting, after all, is the sweetest part.

**Author's Note:**

> title from a song but i can't say which without seriously blowing my cover so yee-haw


End file.
